


Bare Your Throat, Baby, and I'll Make You Crave

by thelogicoftaste



Series: The Sacred Trinity of You and I [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Porn, Anal Sex, BDSM-lite, Camboy Derek Hale, Camboy Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't usually do things like this, not to this level of intensity and with this level of production. But this, though, <em>this</em> is special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare Your Throat, Baby, and I'll Make You Crave

**Author's Note:**

> Whaddup. I wrote porn. 
> 
> Would you believe me if I told you this came to me in a dream? No? Well, it did.
> 
> I literally started writing this the month before I went to University; I’m now a second year. 
> 
> Two years.
> 
> Two _bloody_ years this has been in the making. 
> 
> I wrote about a third of it when I first started, and the rest in a few hours today (following my very (very!) detailed plan) 
> 
> Anyway - 
> 
> Enjoy :)

-

They start as they always do.

They're on the uppermost floor of their house, in the middle of the preserve, and the sunlight that slowly dwindles in careens through wall of one-way windows on the far side, letting the sunlight wash the room bright and clear, whilst blocking their carefully wrought privacy from view.

The set up is simple. They're using a chair this time, just the one solitary chair as their main focus, because Derek has been waiting to be able to do this scene for a long, long time. 

They don't usually do things like this, not to this level of intensity and with this level of production.  

It's their job, Derek knows, but most times, it honestly doesn't even feel like it. 

It feels like _them_ , like them merely perfecting the art of being together; and it just so happens that they have decided to share that with the rest of the world, making it available to countless strangers behind computer screens from here all the way to the edge of the earth. But that small factor doesn't make it any less special, nor any less good. 

Not when Derek gets to wake up to Stiles straddling his sleeping form, camera in hand chatting innately as Derek slowly, lethargically blinks his way back in to the land of the living, before Stiles hands the camera to a sleep-clumsy Derek so that he can film him kiss his way down his chest. 

Or when Derek comes in from his customary mid-afternoon run, soaked in sweat, with adrenaline coursing through his blood, grass staining his sneakers green and Stiles setting up the camera on the kitchen counter, pressing Derek to the floor, shoving his running shorts halfway down his thighs and fucking him right there and then, just like that. 

Just like that.

But this, though, _this_ is special. 

Stiles is sprawled on the chair in the middle of the room, completely naked, with his arms securely tied together, forearm above forearm against the small of his back, each leg fed through a loop of thick rope that Derek hangs from the hooks on the ceiling. 

The chair itself has no arms, it’s made of sturdy cedar wood and a square, weaved back; the legs are thick and cubed, reinforced by the toggle bolts that Derek had fitted the night before. 

The look of concentration on Stiles' face is somewhat ruined by the small hitching gasps he makes at the back of his throat as he tests his binds, and the way that his expression spasms as he begins to feel the burn of his legs being held so far apart, just a few deliberate centimeters out his comfort zone. 

Derek quickly gets to turning on the five cameras around the studio, standing on sturdy iron tripods at each compass point surrounding the chair, and another one positioned solely to capture Stiles' expressive face. 

There's a large flat screen television anchored to the wall next to the windows, and Derek flicks between the view from each camera before he settles on his favourite one: Stiles from the front with his legs spread and a hot red blush curling from the hollow of his cheeks and tumbling down over his chest to flood his belly. 

Derek is still fully clothed, in a dark, neat polo and jeans. The material scrapes carelessly over his skin, sensitized with excitement, as he pads softly around the room, testing the light and the sound. 

He grabs the lube from the wheeled silver cart standing just outside of shot, and he can feel the weight of Stiles' gaze on him as he warms the bottle between his hands; it makes his skin itch with pure, unadulterated want. 

It always kind of stuns Derek, to be able to see the physical transformation of Stiles when they enter a scene. The way that his gestures become quieter, his gaze focused but no less keen, intense in the way his words all but cease. 

Derek crouches down in front of him, touches warm fingertips to where Stiles is soft and eager, "Tell me."

He can hear the hitch in Stiles' breathing, the way that his hole twitches and puckers under Derek's careful ministration. 

Derek won't do anything more than this, wide careful strokes over his hole, until Stiles answers. 

"Red," Stiles eventually breathes, eyes fixed on Derek's relentless fingers. "Red to stop, Green for go. Nod, or click my fingers if I can't speak."

"Good," Derek tells him, flickers his gaze up to see Stiles licking his lips, mouth dropping open in a breath. "That's very good."

There are other things too, of course, things that Derek is always on the lookout for whenever they scene, no matter what. He can read Stiles, you see, he can read him so easily and especially when he's like this: soft beneath Derek's fingers. 

So Derek will observe and he'll look for a certain way that Stiles will move in discomfort, a different sort of pained gasp or the way he looks when he's much too overwhelmed, things that will make Derek stop immediately.

He looks for all the things that he's discovered over the years and through a lot of trial and error; he knows Stiles' body as well as he does his own by now, perhaps ever better. 

And the moment that Derek first slides his finger into Stiles will never fail to astound the man. 

He loves seeing the way that Stiles' spine arches up slow, taught and fluid, the way he tips his head back and sighs, angling his hips forward, even against his binds, to take Derek further. And when Derek pushes two fingers into Stiles, deep enough that the pad of Derek's thumb can massage his perineum in slow _torturous_ circles, he hears the breath that gets caught in Stiles' throat, that momentary cessation of breathing that makes him choke and bear down, singularly focusing on that one spot that Derek takes to massaging from both the inside and the outside. 

Derek doesn't miss the way that clear beads of sweat begin rolling down Stiles' throat, emerging from the dark swathe of his dampening hair to roll alongside the raised veins on his neck, running low and languid to pool in the crevice between his collarbones. 

The only sound now being the short, unrestrained rasps of breath tumbling from Stiles’ throat, Derek pushes his fingers into Stiles, burrowing into his heat, stretching and widening his digits in way that makes the burn of being filled inch across Stiles skin, settling against him like the thinnest layer of sweat misting over him.

Its not so much the act that makes Stiles like this, but rather the atmosphere in the room. It’s the little things, Derek knows, like his breath ghosting cool across Stiles’ feverish skin, the reverent quietness overtaking the room, the demure light that casts shadows of gold over Stiles; it’s the little things that entice him, that make him close his eyes and breathe deep and feel tranquility settle over his bones.

Stiles makes a quiet noise of perforated surprise right from the base of his throat as Derek removes his fingers. He licks his lips, mouth already dry from his breathless gasps and he opens his eyes to track Derek’s movements.

His breath stops for a second when his gaze lands on the gag held delicately between Derek’s hands.

“Green,” he says quietly, eyes locked on to Derek’s gaze as he stands above him.

Stiles opens his mouth without even having to be prompted, and Derek settles the ball, smooth and black on a delicate silver chain, against the flat of Stiles’ tongue, lips stretching pretty and pink around it.

Stiles bites down on it, as the size stretches his jaw, a moan muffled behind it, blinking slowly as he watches Derek.

Derek fastens it slowly; counting each of Stiles’ steady, deep breaths; making sure that Stiles’ hair doesn’t get caught in the chain. He rubs his thumbs over the stretched hinges of Stiles’ jaw for only a second, he kisses his forehead, and then he’s moving away.

Derek’s back across the room, fingers hovering over the toys arranged on the cart as he dithers on which one to pick first. He already has a general idea of how the session is going to pan out, he’d discussed it with Stiles beforehand, but the minute details are always subject to change.

In the end, he settles on the silver vibrator they’d bought the summer before. It’s sleek and thin, but the intensity of it is what Derek's after – exquisite vibrations that undulate closer and closer together.

They’ve only used it a few times since they’ve bought it, but now Stiles’ gaze hovers over it in ravenous anticipation, a damp moan muffled behind his gag. Derek rolls the vibrator between his hands before making it slick with lube, but the dichotomy in temperature is still a jolt to Stiles. He sucks in a sharp breath, tongue weighed down beneath the gag, and he shudders as Derek pushes the vibrator in slowly, in a long, smooth stroke. It feels like hard silk against Stiles, the base settling justly and Stiles clamping down on the firmness of it.

The vibrations start gently, Stiles’ reaction seen only in the intermittent twitch of his toes, the clench of his hands. But then, he’s rolling his body along with it, breathing harsh and hard, eyes fluttering closed – flashes of golden irises catching orange on the setting sun.

Derek can’t take his eyes away from him, his own cock is pressing insistently at the material of his slacks and yet – all that matters is the toss of Stiles’ head to the side, the tremble of his bottom lip against his gag as Derek slowly turns the dial up.

Stiles shakes. Beautiful curves cut across his body, broad chest rising up as the strong muscles in his calves and his biceps strain against their bindings. His eyes open, seeking out Derek even as he hurtles towards his climax, his breath comes faster, sharper, more electric; sweat beads at the edges of his hair and he clamps down on the ball-gag inside his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as his breath stutters from his lungs in a long, chaotic groan.

Derek watches him, greedy eyes cataloguing every minute motion of his lover’s body, slowly dwindling the vibrations down to a low, desolate hum.

Then, it stops.

Stiles sighs, deep and solid, and Derek steps forward, to run his hand over the broad expanse of Stiles’ skin.

He loosens the gag behind Stiles’ head, pops it out of his mouth and lets it rest against the hollow of Stiles’ throat instead.

Then, Derek loosens the loops of rope, from which Stiles’ legs dangle, and gently eases each of them to the floor. He gives Stiles a minute to just breathe, working his hands in slow, even circles over Stiles’ legs. This will get edited out later, a moment preserved just for them, but for now, Derek contents himself in the quiet sound of his palms rubbing through the shade of hair on Stiles’ calves and thighs.

“You alright?” Derek asks, eyes flickering up.

Stiles nods a little jerkily, red-faced, messy-haired and sweaty, but he manages a soft smile, voice roughened to a slight whisper, “Yeah, baby.”

“Water?” Derek asks next, though he’s already moving over to where a jug of iced water stands beside a glass and a handful of zesty-coloured straws.

Stiles sucks big mouthfuls of water, mouth puckered around a bright green straw even as he peers up at Derek with mischievous eyes.

They’re likely not going to get a break for a little while now, so Derek gives Stiles his fill. He puts the glass down and presses his hand against Stiles’ throat; Derek pauses there, hand moving up to cradle Stiles’ lightly stubbled jaw, thumb caressing the deep indent at the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

From there, it’s easy for Derek to slide his thumb inside the other man’s mouth, to feel his brazen heat envelop him. He slides his thumb to the side, hooking on the edge of Stiles’ bottom molars, pulling his mouth open.

Derek keeps him like that, even as his other hand reaches for his jeans – the sound of the zipper dragging down along its teeth is loud in the quiet of the room, echoing the shivers that fizz over the bumps of Stiles’ spine.

Derek feeds his dick into Stiles, the length of himself sliding in alongside his thumb before he drags it out from Stiles’ mouth, smothers that smooth wetness across the sharp crest of Stiles’ cheekbones as he cradles his face.

Stiles flicks his gaze up to Derek’s, so careful and trusting, as he places his feet more solidly on the ground and leans forward, wrapping his lips tight around Derek’s cock.

He starts to move slowly, always aware of the pressure of the vibrator in his ass, but he takes Derek leisurely – wide mouth opening and throat muscles slacking in preparation to take him deep.

Derek is better at this – taking a cock down to its root – than Stiles is. Stiles has a sensitive reflex, has to take it slow and steady, long measured pulls of his soft mouth as he laps at the glans of Derek’s cock with his ever eager tongue.

Derek can’t help but groan quietly, sensation crashing over his skin as Stiles’ mouth works over him, as he pulls back to suckle on the cockhead, licking at the beads of pre-come gathering at slit.

Stiles ducks under, trailing his lips over the underside of Derek’s cock, kissing wetly at the veins that raise the skin there; Derek’s breathing heavy, one hand insinuating itself amongst Stiles’ soft hair, gripping tightly, whilst the other grasps his balls in a firm fist, offering the tight sacs to Stiles’ eager mouth.

Derek turns slightly, makes sure that the camera can catch the voracious way that Stiles traces the skin of Derek’s balls, how his mouth parts eagerly press wet, open mouthed kisses around the contours of it – how his cheeks bulge when Derek stuffs him full.

Above Stiles, Derek jacks himself slowly, his dick a heavy, familiar weight in his hands, a little to dry for his liking. So, he pulls Stiles off his balls, pushes his dick inside his mouth instead, rocks steadily on the balls of his feet and, with his hand pressing on the back of Stiles’ head, thrusts until the head of his dick is sliding over the softness of Stiles’ throat. Stiles’ nose is buried amongst the Derek’s coarse pubic hair, and he feels the other man’s strong, calm exhales flitter through the sensitive skin of his groin.

He stays right there, hand cradling Stiles’ head to him, until Stiles reddens, and the vein in his neck stands out in relief. He pulls back, lets Stiles regain his breath and work out the soreness in his jaw. Then he’s thrusting in, lingering strokes in and out of his mouth, accompanied by Derek’s long sighs, before Derek’s settling in once more – snug in Stiles’ throat.

Derek muffles a groan behind his gritted teeth, body heat rising at the sight of Stiles’ mouth stretched over his warm skin, the feel of him wrapped so tightly around his dick.

He slides out, tugging his balls back down, and Stiles gulps in lungful after lungful of air. Eyes falling shut as his chest heaves and a mixture of spit and pre-come forms a shiny patina over his swollen lips.

Stiles’ eyes, when he finally opens them, are glassy and wet – pupils blow wide, eyelashes clumped together with errant tears of exertion. He blinks slowly at Derek as he reinserts the gag into Stiles’ mouth, one hand holding his face, thumb soothing at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, and the other fastening the gag tight behind him.

Derek tucks himself back in, then wanders to lean over the table holding all the remote controls, keeps watching Stiles even as the other man’s gaze drops and catches on the way Derek’s fingers hover over the dial controlling the vibrator still buried in his ass.

Derek hears Stiles’ sharp intake of breath before he turns the vibrator on, body shivering as he rolls along with the strong pulses. Derek watches him closely - the way that Stiles is sprawled over the chair, feet flat on the ground as his hips undulate, head thrown back – before he punches up the speed until Stiles is gurgling moans at the back of his throat.

Derek moves back to him, circling around to the back of the chair as he runs his wide hands over the planes of Stiles’ chest, anchoring him down on the chair, hands hooking under Stiles’ knees – pulling his legs apart to show the camera the way that Stiles squeezes and shakes around that thin vibrator, ass clenching and muscles contracting.

Stiles moans wetly behind his gag, toes curling, pushing his face into the crook of Derek’s throat, he stops breathing and comes all over himself.

Dollops of creamy white come pulse from his reddened dick, frenzied as it twitches over Stiles’ quivering belly, getting all tangled up in the fuzz of hair running beneath Stiles’ navel.

Derek fucks Stiles with the sleek vibrator, slowly turning it so the vibrations catch Stiles’ rim as he pulls it out. His fingers slide down to the underside of Stiles' thighs to spread his ass, and he presses the device – manually reset to a gentler speed and still warm from Stiles’ body – against Stiles’ hole, feeling a jolt of hot lust spread through him as he watches the puckered hole quiver and catch along the smoothness of the material.

-

Derek cleans Stiles’ belly with a warm, soft cloth; gently rubbing the drying come from his stomach, before moving on to clean between his thighs, his groin – switching over to a new cloth, rinsed slightly cooler, to dab over Stiles’ face, his throat and his chest. 

He helps Stiles stand up, an arm around his waist as he stumbles on weak legs, and Derek takes a moment to press his nose to Stiles temple, to feel his solid weight draped over his front.

Derek turns Stiles around, helps him to straddle the chair – glorious ass, rounded and full, sticking out. Stiles leans heavily on the back of the chair, turning his face to the side to lean his cheek on the edge of it whilst Derek slowly, carefully unties his arms.

He tests the give of the rope, first of all, and then unwraps Stiles – reverently, like a gift.

The marks left behind on his skin are just ... gorgeous little indentations that circle the strength in Stiles’ biceps, they crisscross over each other, coils of marks wrapped around in symmetry – like echoes.

They’re so delicate, and it’s a maddening contrast to how sturdy Stiles is – with the breadth of his shoulders and his straining muscles. The marks will be gone in a few hours, but for now, Derek brushes the tip of his fingers across them, exulting in the shivers Stiles emits in response.

He massages Stiles’ arms thoroughly, helping reintegrate proper blood flow with as little discomfort as possible.

Stiles is blinking slowly, even when Derek brings his arms up, cuffs them to the back of the woven chair with soft leather straps that fit like silk to his wrists.

Derek runs his hands over Stiles’ belly, making sure his soft dick isn’t trapped underneath his thigh, wraps his hands around Stiles’ hips and pulls back until his ass is all but hanging over the edge, spread beautifully.

He cuffs Stiles’ ankles to the chair legs and removes his gag, setting it aside. Stiles licks his lips, watches Derek quietly.

Derek presses his hand to the curve of Stiles’ back, “How are you holding up?”

Stiles snorts coarsely. “Big guy’s got jokes, huh?” he says, teeth peeking out in a grin, “'S kinda rude to unleash it when I’m all tied up.”

Derek rolls his eyes, lips ticking up in a helpless smile, “No pun intended.”

Stiles blinks, all fondness, “I’m okay. I’m green and I’m doing good,” he pauses, narrows his eyes speculatively, “like, _really_ good.”

Derek smirks, more than a little smug. He adjusts himself in his pants and moves over to the silver cart once more.

There’s a hook on top of a towel – sleek and shiny, with a ball attached to the end about the size of a small tangerine.

Derek runs the ball over the palm of his hand, warming it up before he ties the hook from a rope dangling from the ceiling.

From the cart, Derek picks up a spray bottle of mineral oil, spraying it all over Stiles’ ass. He rubs the oil firmly into Stiles’ skin, crouching beside him, so that the camera can catch the way that Derek’s hands glide over the slick surface of Stiles’ body; the way that his skin dips with the steady press of Derek’s fingers, the way that Stiles’ pert ass – shiny and glistening – bounces with the easy spanking Derek dispenses.

Stiles is squirming in his chair by the time Derek’s done, hands gripping the back of the chair and deep, salacious moans tumbling from his throat.

Derek wipes his hands on the towel in the cart before spraying the anal hook with a generous amount of lube.

It slides into Stiles so easily, that Derek just has to pull it back to watch Stiles suck it in again, lazily fucking his rim with the round circumference of the metal. Stiles groans and sighs, pushing his ass back to settle the ball inside him. Derek makes sure that the curve of the hook settles well over Stiles’ ass, before he stands, carefully pulling on the other end of the rope, attached to the hook through the clasp in the ceiling.

Stiles moves up with the hook, until he’s hovering about an inch and a half over the seat – not enough to hurt him, as his feet are still flat on the ground - but enough to have his thighs trembling.

Derek circles back around, putting a small black stand behind the chair, making him tall enough for Stiles to get at his dick.

He has a firm grip on Stiles’ face when he feeds him this cock this time. Derek watches Stiles carefully, critical gaze always worrying, even as his lips fall slack as his cock fills the softness of Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles is much more pliant like this, eyes falling closed and mouth tight around Derek’s length, taking him deep and steady. His tongue works restlessly on the underside of Derek’s cock – because if Derek ever thought Stiles would ever be able to be completely still, he was gravely mistaken – and it’s utterly distracting, gorgeously so.

Derek wants to return the favour, but maybe later on, when Stiles isn’t covered in mineral oil, and worse, unflavoured lube. Maybe when he gets Stiles into their bed, on his belly, he’ll fuck him deep and slow with his tongue, unravel him from the inside.

Derek speeds up a little, hips rocking into Stiles’ mouth, heavy balls swinging into Stiles’ chin, long strides straight into his throat. When he pulls back, it’s to smear his dick over Stiles’ face, his swollen lips and his red-streaked cheeks.

He pushes back in again until Stiles’ nose is pressed against Derek’s groin, heaving heavy breaths against Derek’s skin, gagging a little when Derek carefully grinds his hips forward.

But, Stiles can’t keep this on for much longer Derek knows, so he pulls back, eyes locking with Stiles as they catch their breaths.

He unhooks him, puts the hook to the side to be cleaned later, before he unties Stiles’ wrists and his ankles.

Derek loves seeing Stiles tied up, needy for Derek’s touch – but Derek isn’t a Saint, and neither is he particularly selfless. He _wants_ Stiles, all the time. He craves his touch, the way that he moves his body against Derek, tips his head back in bliss when Derek fills him.

So Derek isn’t particularly patient when he switches his and Stiles’ positions, when he sits on the chair and pushes his jeans halfway down his thighs before pulling Stiles down to straddle him.

He takes off his shirt first though, aware how coarse the material of it feels against Stiles’ bare skin when he’s this sensitive, before guiding Stiles down the length of his cock. Derek holds him steady with one arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist, and he’s so hot inside – almost burning.

Stiles’ hands run over Derek’s chest, settling over his shoulders before Derek catches them and pulls them behind his back to hold.

Stiles’ breath snags, and he feebly tests the strength of Derek’s hold, “Der…”

Derek steadies him with a hand on his waist, spreads his legs as much as his jeans will allow.

“Come on,” he goads, voice roughened out to a hazy, lust-filled murmur. “Ride me. Make me come.”

Stiles knows exactly what he likes, so he rolls his hips, pushing himself down on Derek’s hard length, opening up so easily around him. He leans back on Derek’s hold, trusting him to keep him aloft, as he grinds his ass against Derek.

Derek swears, breath leaving his lungs in harsh pants as he interlocks both of his hands with Stiles’ in the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles’ fingers grip on Derek hard enough to bruise, if only temporarily, and his entire body surges. It starts in Stiles’ chest, the way it rises up, Stiles’ head tipped back, before the movement falls down to Stiles’ hips – thick thigh muscles allowing him fuck himself on Derek’s cock, pulling him deep into his body.

Derek pulls him upright, and his cheeks are blazing red, eyes hazy and unfocused, and he exhales a deep sigh; but he presses forward to kiss Derek. He turns his head at the last moment, and Stiles’ mouth clumsily catches Derek’s cheek.

They don’t ever kiss, properly, when they scene like this – not even when Stiles plaintively begs for it.

Stiles tumbles forward, tucking himself against Derek’s body. 

"Please," he whispers quietly, desperately, so low that the overhead microphones can pick up nothing but a low mumble, his lips rose petal soft against Derek's sweat slicked throat. "Please, Derek." 

Derek's only answer is to wrap his arms firmly around Stiles; his forearms bearing strong against the pressure of Stiles' held ones, and fucking up in to the sweet heat of his body. Long, swift strokes that sharpen Stiles' moans into continuous keening, mouth open and panting damp warmth into the crook of Derek's shoulder. 

Derek comes deep inside of him, in pulsating waves, holding Stiles tightly against him, brushing his lips over the delicate skin of his shoulder.

After, Stiles is spread on chair once more, his legs pulled up by his own hands, and Derek is nosing at the crease of his thigh. Everything seems quiet. The sun has gone down completely, but the lights in the room make it as good as day.

Derek keeps sneaking peaks at the television screen because he can’t believe how good Stiles looks, sated and exhausted, and still yearning for his release – his cock, flushed a deep red, curving up over his belly.

He looks solid and transcendent at the same time, like a paradox. And Derek is spellbound.

His eyes are fixed on where he pushes the dildo in and out of Stiles, watching his lover, his _love_ , get more and more worked up.

Stiles’ fingers spasm on the delicate underside of his thighs, his teeth sink down savagely on the softness of his lips and Derek can’t look away.

When Derek reaches down on to the underside of the dildo, switching the vibrations on, it’s like Stiles comes alive.

He has his head thrown back over the back of the chair, hair mussed with sweat, the bare line of his throat blushing red and sinuous as his throat locks around his voice box, making sweet, punched out half noises that catch in the air.

His eyes squeeze shut, a garbled approximation of Derek’s name clutches the air - and Stiles shatters.

-

Derek turns the temperature of the shower nearly all the way down, so that the water runs cool and steady over their feverish skin. 

Stiles has his arms wrapped around Derek's waist, his nose buried in Derek's neck, breathing strong and steady through the intensity of his comedown. 

There's absolutely nothing sexual about this, instead there's a familiar comfort that binds the two of them together. 

Stiles is still slow and lethargic in his movements, tired out by the physical and emotional exercise he underwent, so Derek lets him lean his forehead against the cool tiles as he massages shampoo into Stiles' hair, he makes sure to press down firmly on his pressure points as he soothes soap into his skin, kisses his shoulder blade when he presses on Stiles' hips to present his ass for careful inspection, whispering soft words of praise and encouragement as his fingers trail over the sensitised skin. 

Stiles refuses to let Derek carry him to bed, “I’m a _man_ ,” he declares firmly, if a little slurred.

Derek chuckles; wet hair dripping over Stiles’ shoulder as he holds him close. “The manliest of men,” Derek assures him, and carries him to bed anyway.

He plasters himself to Stiles back underneath the covers and runs his hands down Stiles’ chest, his hips, and thighs. He wraps a gentle hand around Stiles’ neck to make him turn his head. Derek smiles, presses a chaste kiss on Stiles’ lips, feels Stiles grin against his mouth, kissing him back slowly.

Then, Derek reaches forward, grabs the remote for the TV in their room and sets it to the feed of the TV upstairs. He sees Stiles, naked and gorgeous, legs strung up to bare him in all his glory.

He settles closer to Stiles, kisses his cheek even as he drifts into sleep, and presses play.

-

**Author's Note:**

> The next one is bottom!Derek, I haven't really worked out the logistics yet, but there'll probably be some more wise-crackin' jokes fucking about in there.


End file.
